A Pair of Evening Haikus

The two red foxes

Moonlit ache of woodland paws Shadows on concrete The owls know your name As a feather from a wing Far is good morning

Dear Extroverts

Dear Extroverts,

I am the introvert

. . . possibly "your" introvert

The one on the side

at the meeting table,

talked over,

talked at,

talked about

for not talking enough.

Framed in the back gallery as

soft spoken 

quiet

shy

even suspicious

And now, a magnanimous plot twist,

encouraged to participate more

speak up

really, come to the table

because your thoughts are valuable 

(thanks, I agree)

You'll grow out of it. . . the quiet.

I have thought about it

I often think about it

from behind my shades

and headphones

a reflection of someplace quiet. . .

The noise is in my head, 

not outside.

There is noise from your mouth

was that from your head?

I happen to like how I am

Perhaps even be proud

though you might have trouble telling,

as there are no closed captions

I am not "as seen on TV

I am introvert.

Hear me assert myself,

at a reasonable speaking volume.

Breaking Out

Breaking Out
aka my god it's full of sars


A glance out the port
The dusty glass, a cat's blue eye

Begin the ritual of protection
End the void within my gloves one finger at a time
Thinking on the moment space makes a man, a boy
tumbled in waves of cold elation

A step out.
How gently the absorbing darkness
Puts all the zero in my bones

followed by more
To close the inconsolable distances
In what we lose
Inside.

To Persistent Demands

"Touch me. I like it when I can feel something", she said.
"Let's make noise.
Let us be more than what we hear."

I reached for her with my rough hands
Gentle words, kind deeds,
Served sumptuous meals
For her fluttering eyes,
her clandestine heart
I helped part her masked lips
In search of the brilliant blade of her smile

She made masks of houndstooth
For her friends, neighbors, heroes
She offered me a mask, but I demured

Did I ever actually touch her?
Was I only ever touching myself?

I wield words, my winsome weapon
With panache, humor, disdain

 Silently swooshing solitary shapes 

Her weft was in the making,
Weaving sparse words
Into enigmas, and victory

"I am semi-hard hearted
withholding, and not talkative"
She warned in a lilting speech,
A small red bird, taking off,
Like a witticism unleashed
In a room full of recyclable punsters

In my cell, a many-minded body,

Breath propelled, floating through rooms
Bodies, profaned in the stewing plague

Just the idea of bodies. . . touching

A nervous social poison

etches itself on every furrowed brow

Every thumb, an alphabet smashing savant

Stunned, and stunted, we grew apart

Branches, wireframed by circumstance

Twisting in the stubborn wind our soft  spots

by the light of rectangular blue suns

I smash myself a quick note:
Yes self, we did touch her;
If only for one, bitter-sweet moment.

Losing you in 14 lines

You were dancing and dodging, my eyes, that were watching
A small hand in my hand, through crowds had I led you

A wine bar, a dance hall, your front seat, and our aching
I played hooky for your sweet hand, in a small park by the duck pond
Escape rooms, and space tombs, and together we saved the day and a queen
A marvel of sponge cake, immortal ballon - you carried these presents from so far away
To the haunting of old rooms, a night club, and Liam

I pulled you and you followed. Coming ever closer, to my heart, my light, my air
My city, my friendships, my secrets, and a share of all my hardship
But your days were where you struggled, like your hair upon the pillow
Softly aimless, sweet the tangle, as one was drowned into the other
And here were we, lost, in spirals, to each other.. closer, but lower, ever lower

In the end was there trembling... ugly, my mouth, and beautiful your eyes
So your hand, I let go, in the autumn of good byes.

The funeral

An Asian lady with flowers on her blue shirt crosses the street. Her tightly permed black hair untouched by wind, as she makes her way home. Her steps unspooled unevenly across the pavement, each pulling loose like taffy. I wave to her, smiling. She's my best friend's mother, and she is almost home. She smiles. She always smiled kindly at me. I'm never sure why.

We were one of a half dozen asian boys at a school full of black, latino, and italian kids. We must be friends. Even if the first time we met, he was dared by the athletic kids to come kick my teeth in. He didn't. I'm grateful for that. But the fact of how we met is still hilarious in my mind.

There was sunlight streaming into the computer room in my parents' apartment. I leaned against the checkered wood framed curtains in that window sill. I sat on an old grey couch like a plastic house plant, pretending to take in the light, willing myself to grow. "You look like a girl," he says. I had no clue if it was an insult or a statement of fact. We're not fighting that week, so I just shrug, and smile.

She is in the hospital, because biology catches us all. Her son, truly my best friend, asks if I want to visit her. Without a hesitation I volunteer. I change hotel dates, drive, and put on my best spirit. She is in one of those dressed up crash carts they use in hospitals. We make pleasant small talk. There is sunlight streaming into the room. She smiles because she has made her kingdom in this senior facility.

He is proud of her. He is always so proud of her when he tells me her stories. My best friend tells me she has asserted her will over the staff and residents of the hospital. She's good at this. She was a factory foreman, those days when I saw her walking home. A group of people stood little chance against the force of her will, and her wit. it's so hard to write this, because I was also proud of her, as I listened to these stories.

My master died of cancer. He was a short and scrappy man, half my size and weight. Like a magic trick, he would walk up to me. Stop. Put his fist gently against my solar plexus. And with a resolute release of breath,  toss me back one to ten feet, depending on how much of a point he was trying to make that day. He'd always smile. This crazy, deeply lined, shit eating grin. Because he knew he had something. Biomechanical magical. It was so incredibly repeatable. On me. On thre three hundred pound NYPD sargents who would slink into class to pay homage to his teachings. 

I am always proud of him, when I speak of my master.

The house is filled with steam. My best friend and I often got together after class. We played video games, in the part of the living room, fenced off by a black lacquer divider that served as his room. A computer, an asian parents' prayer for their child's future. On this our parents agreed. The boys need a fifty pound piece of IBM hardware. Not sure why. But it has to be there. We played hair metal rock, and the ballads of soaring voices from the 90's, and games meant to run on BBS's with arena battles using cupid's bow, and interstellar trader cleverly capturing margin from alien beings, and MUD's where we were dragons, god's and princes.

The steam came from her kitchen. She came home from a good day as foreman. I never asked her for her stories. She cooked dinner almost every time I was over after school. Sometimes I would eat at their table. They would speak of the day, and ask how school was. One time, my best friend wrestled his dad. I could see the joy in all of their faces as they tussled. If I could pass by that moment of family joy, I was like part of the family, right? I wish I asked her for her stories, but I was painfully shy. Better to face the CRT black mirror, because I had one of these altars at home too, so that's where we should point our eyes, right?

The drive to new york city is long. There are times when an early snow would cover the smatterings of farmland in western Massachusetts, that I zip by at 80 miles an hour. Those are seconds from a four hour drive, that I cherish in my memories. They call out to something deep inside, like a painting in the MoMA. Those snow touched hay bales and fallowing fields resonate like the gentle strike of a tuning fork. I drive on, because I cannot stop. I don't even know what town that snow dusted farm was in. I remember the hills crinkled with frosted pine trees, like a crumpled rough draft. I know them intimately, but I couldn't stop to ask. I am a grown man, and I am no longer shy. Am I?

Her funeral is in chinatown. My first funeral was in chinatown, when my grandfather passed away. We weren't close. He helped pay our way to emigrate from China, to live in his attic. I had a tiny bed, and a knock-off disney blanket that was so threadbare, and worn out, the last time I recall . . . and it was so soft to the touch. Mickey mouse was a vaudeville entertainer, and wore a boater hat, stripes, and held a cane. That's far enough to avoid the Disney trademark, right?

Her funeral is in chinatown, and I am there. Of course I am there. Her husband welcomes me with such warmth, like sunlight streaming into my computer room. He would walk the hours from my best friend's apartment where he stayed, to the senior facility in Brooklyn every day to see her. To visit her in that hospital style bed, that rolls because it might urgently need to roll.

After school, at their house, he would usually come home second, often with a red bag. The flimsy red plastic bag showed the unwavering turth that chinatown fed just about every Chinese family in New York. He would dote on her, razz my best friend, then settle in before dinner.

My dad worked late, because he was a newspaper man. I had to stay up until 3am to get razzed. I usually got a slice of bread touched by olive oil, and toasted on a pan. Sometimes scrambled eggs. Might as well feed him, since the boy is still awake.

Her funeral is in chinatown. I drove by the crinkled rough draft hills of western Massachusetts. Of course I would be there. We have a meal together. My best friend, his father. I think there was a chicken? I have no earthyl idea what we ate. We're Chinese, so the food is a very important part of every funeral. I remember her last meal in that sense. A massive bowl of rice made spherical like a topiary. A glossy yellow steamed chicken. There were probably oranges. Why do we love fruit so much.

Her funeral is in chinatown. It took me over a year to find the tears for that moment. That day, I was there in a black suit, to stand by my best friend. To stand by his father. To shake hands with so many people. Most of whom I didn't know. And that's okay. Because I am a grown up man. I am no longer shy?

There is incense at the funeral home, because this is a Chinese funeral. After the procession of greeting, we take our turns to hold incense and bow to the deceased. She is there in the casket. Her hair tightly permed. They did a pretty good job with her makeup. She could stir, get up, and walk over to her home in Queens at any minute. She'd sit down on her pillow on the couch, and watch her shows as we worshipped at the CRT altar a few feet away. Any minute now.

There is a cemetery in Brooklyn, hilly and crowded with tombstones pressed close like faces in a yearbook. There is only us; my best friend, his dad and I. We are there at the last part of the funeral. Her casket is closed, and loaded onto a platform that rolls because it might urgently need to roll.

She is loaded gently onto a wheeled platform, like machinery rolling into a factory. Is she still in there? Did she make it back to her home in Queens yet? They sold that place years ago. We sold our apartment across the street from them years ago.

I still drive through that neighborhood whenever I visit Queens. I visit the ghost of my childhood. There's barely anyone I know there any more. I remember marching through the park, with a bundle of spears on my shoulder after a kung fu class. My master used to like to take us to that neighborhood,  after four hours of hard practice. "Dere's an amazing lemon ice place dere", he'd tell us.

Her funeral was in Chinatown. Her cremation was in Brooklyn. Her casket was rolled onto the roller floor lift gate. The box rolled into the charred darkness, and the door shut. There is a momentary pause. I wonder what they do with the rice topiary, and the glossy yellow chicken. 

My best friend, and his dad look at each other. Then they look at the big red button next to the charred darkness. They press it together.

The Round Sweetness of Pine

I want to breathe you, the sweet air of mornings here,

A light cashmere mist, heavy with first light

and the round sweetness of pine

braided ribbons of torn green grass

How was your dream, my sleepy love? 

Was your heart, dancing near mine?

Did our fingers find their way, together to bind

through night, through distance, and time?

I miss your arms, as surely as you miss mine

The way morning brings sleepy kisses divine

Before all the world spins underfoot

Though we stumble,
                 we right
with one another.

And go we sweetly, on through the day. . .
                                                                       on through the day .